


And please, darling, help me smoke this one more cigarette.

by sheswanderlust



Category: Hannibal (TV) RPF
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Madancy, a little bit angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 03:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheswanderlust/pseuds/sheswanderlust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> When the director’s “stop” had come, he had not been able to do anything but sitting and letting Mads scooping him in a hug. He had hung himself to his arms, his hold much weaker than he had wished, his voice that did not give sign to come out, his heart wounded. He had not been able to answer to Mads voice murmuring a quiet “sorry” that only they could hear. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	And please, darling, help me smoke this one more cigarette.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this is my first Madancy fic. It was inspired by this post on Tumblr http://lieutenant-mairon.tumblr.com/post/130133244669/hugh-and-mads-sharing-a-cigarette-is-both-my.  
> English is not my first language, so sorry for the mistakes.  
> The fic's title is a lyric from "Cigarettes and coffee" by Otis Redding.
> 
>  
> 
> Post 2x13 shooting.  
>  
> 
> Disclaimer: nothing that I write about has really happened, I do not know the people I talk about in this fic, and obviously I do not own them.

Hugh put the cigarette to his lips and closed his eyes, savoring the burning of the smoke descending through his throat.  
Cold lashed against his face and his by then dried curls. He rested his head against the wall, taking another drag and exhaling the smoke slowly. He heard steps approaching and stopping at short distance from him. He did not open his eyes, just stretched his arm, feeling familiar fingers brushing against his and taking the cigarette. A breath, the vague warmth of a body leaning beside him. After some seconds, a hand delicately put the cigarette between his slightly opened lips. He brought his hand to his mouth, holding the filter between his fingers and taking another drag. 

"Are you ok?"

Few times in the past he had been so profoundly hit by a scene. When the director’s “stop” had come, he had not been able to do anything but sitting and letting Mads scooping him in a hug. He had hung himself to his arms, his hold much weaker than he had wished, his voice that did not give sign to come out, his heart wounded. He had not been able to answer to Mads voice murmuring a quiet _“sorry”_ that only they could hear. He would have wanted to tell him that he had nothing to be sorry about, that he had not had done anything wrong, that he had made that scene perfect, that they were not Hannibal and Will, that nothing of that was real, but he wasn’t able to do it. His vocal chords could not make it, his mind could not make it, his body could not make it. 

"Hugh"

He raised his head in being called again by Mads. He met his eyes, which were not doing anything to hide his concern. 

"I'm fine", he stated, bringing again the cigarette to his lips.

Mads nodded. He took the cigarette that Hugh was handing him and, after the last drag, he put it out under his shoe.  
They spent some minutes in silence, motionless, both in need of that proximity, that almost-contact, that calm after the storm.  
Mads dug his hand in his pocket. He found the pack and took out a new cigarette. He lit it, put away the pack and handed it directly ad Hugh. He watched him taking it to his lips in an elegant gesture, that involuntary elegance so typically _his_ , and smoking slowly, his lungs filling and then empting, smoke melting in the cold air of the grey afternoon. The British handed him the cigarette, but he refused. 

"It’s yours. I owe it to you" he murmured, chuckling slightly and brushing with a finger the other’s hip, right where just minutes before his character had stabbed him. Hugh smiled, taking another drag. Mads leaned against the wall by his side, turning towards him.

Silence. Smoke raised and disappeared regularly. Cold air continued to burn their cheeks. Mads observed Hugh’s brown curls, his skin even paler in that plumbeous light, his blue sweater sliding against his thin hips. His skinny fingers holding the cigarette just enough to do not let it fall. His eyes staring into space. He wondered where his mind was wandering. Probably nowhere, probably in that moment suspended between the knife sticking in his hip and the crew dismantling the set.  
A void to his stomach took Mads at that thought. The idea of Hugh’s mind far away from him, locked in a not accessible place, or maybe lost in an English field, disturbed him. The idea of not being able to reach what hid behind those irises was distressing. He wanted to make him understand that he was there, that he was looking at him, that he would never stab him, that he would never hurt him, never. 

He acted on instinct. He took away the cigarette from his fingers, putting it out under the tip of his shoe, while Hugh looked at him astonished. Then he pushed against the Englishman, his hands gripping his hips. He crashed their lips without too many questions, without trying to answer to too many _why_ s. For a moment, his mind elaborated the scene from the outside: Hugh’s body blocked between him and the wall, held still by his hold on his hips, their mouths joined like they had never been. The scene disappeared from his mind when Hugh’s lips answered to the kiss and his arms tightened around his shoulders. Mads grabbed Hugh’s thighs and picked him up, pushing against him, completely ignoring the lack of oxygen that he was starting to feel.  
Hugh’s mouth tasted of smoke.  
It was the best cigarette of his whole life.


End file.
